In England

Despite the comfy temperature and our own bed, back to our English grey skied rainy reality. Calliope woke me at a hideously early 4:20 and spent the day shadowing me, and occasionally nipping me in an unprovoked way for my absence.  Brian ghosts in from time to time seeming weirdly paranoid.

Lorraine with a bad griping stomach, and me with a touch of a sore throat and still-deaf ear howling with tinnitus. Both under The Cloud of Things That Must Be Done. Some legal stuff on the house weighing heavily. Some of this involves all denizens of the Old Church Hall, and luckily progress has been made while we were away.

Nevertheless we were comparatively gentle with ourselves. A quick drive into town for Sainsbury's and picking up a frame. Someone had broken the wing mirror off the car, so we had to hold it in place with a bungee rope.

Later, I flirted for a few hours with the 400 emails that have accumulated in my absence -- mostly rubbish of course, but my computer also kept freezing so sorting the sheep from the goats took much longer than it should.  Channelling my inner Romy, I fed Lorraine miso soup with added noodles and ginger to help calm her stomach.

I spoke to Mum, she and Mas are going to various dentists for extractions tomorrow, and Felix has a tumour on its paw. I replied to my old pal Mark Hartley, who had written a few days ago. Otherwise drew myself a large mind map with a dozen or so complex actions on it which will eat up the rest of the week at least. I also need to earn some money at some point.

Undeniably nice to be sat on the gold sofa though, and there is a psychological boost to be had from taking arms against The Cloud of Things.

While I was on holiday I read The Experience by Martin Amis, a rather random memoir,  but was readable and interesting, particularly on his relationship with his father. Something called The Rosie Project, which read as it was originally conceived: the script of a romcom, meringue light, enjoyable and read in less than a day. I also have been gripped, possibly because of exposure to Sam and Jade, by the desire to actually complete the university set reading I skipped through in favour of booze and ladies. So this holiday I read Swann's Way by Proust thoroughly this time. The sections I recalled well were around involuntary memory -- but I particularly enjoyed his descriptions of Combray, a fictional village based on Illiers, where he spent his childhood. Illiers has subsequently been renamed Illiers-Combray. And his writing made me think about what I have written about Guernsey. I am also guiltily completing Paradise Lost, by Milton -- to my shame I only read the first book of it with any attention. It is absolutely magnificent. Also magnificent is my Anvil edition of the selected poems of Odysseus Elyitis, which I read cover to cover this time -- and is so good I was also able to read it on the plane coming home.

To bed, strangely bushed. (As in tired, rather than anything to do with pubes.)

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